


i hear your heart beat to the beat of the drums

by mackdizzy



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Timey-Wimey, and SO MUCH OF IT god DAMN, i said fuck canon these characters are mine now., in any way shape or form., wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29944932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackdizzy/pseuds/mackdizzy
Summary: || Young hearts, out our mindsRunning' till we outta timeWild childs, lookin' goodLivin' hard just like we shouldDon't care who's watching when we tearing it upThat magic that we got nobody can touch ||Koschei figures maybe this is how the drums pay their rent, in the end.[Doctor Who Band AU. It’s not complicated.]
Relationships: The Doctor & Amy Pond (Doctor Who), The Doctor & Donna Noble, The Doctor & Jack Harkness, The Doctor & The Master (Doctor Who), The Doctor | Theta Sigma & The Master | Koschei (Doctor Who: Academy Era), The Doctor/River Song, and then. combine those characters in a bunch of other funky ways





	i hear your heart beat to the beat of the drums

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [and that someone is you.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29896125) by [discodancing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/discodancing/pseuds/discodancing). 



> the band fic is back, and the band fic is BETTER! thats right, i am starting ANOTHER multi-chapter work and leaving the 18 unfinished ones I have to rot. I'm working on it, I promise! My brain is VERY scattered lately, but I hope to have ch9 of didnt flap hard enough out soon, so to all you gravity falls fans, thanks.
> 
> it's a doctor who band fic where the doctor is the lead singer and the master is the drummer. i am SHOCKED TO HELL AND BACK that this has not been done already. what the HELL. HOW am i the first person to have thought of this. 
> 
> when reading this fic, keep in mind your rule of thumbs are All Will Be Revealed (or at least I try), and also Don't Think Too Hard About It. I've played around with canon a LOT here, as far as which characters are getting used and their relationships to eachother. Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey; I feel like this show gives me enough liberty to do stuff like that.
> 
> but just in case, here's a couple of questions and answers before we begin, just to clear the air.
> 
> Q. What incarnations of the doctor and the master are these?  
> A. Good fucking question. Probably the first, considering I use their academy names, as well as he/him pronouns, throughout.
> 
> Q. Why are you using a bunch of characters that literally never meet in canon?  
> A. Because I thought it would be more fun than writing OCs for other roles that have to be prominent. Again; don't think too hard about it, just enjoy that they're there for the ride. These characters are not here to follow the same paths they take in canon, to fulfill the same roles in the story, to have the same backstories and story arcs. They're just here to be themselves. 
> 
> Q. Are the timelords still timelords?  
> A. Yup!
> 
> Q. Is Amy still River's mom?  
> A. no. refer to the answer to question 2. 
> 
> Q. are the doctor and the master gonna be boyfriends? or like, at least smooch?  
> A. nope, so if you're looking specifically for shipping, this isn't the fic for you. not because I'm not a fan or because I don't push this agenda, but because i think we need more fiction driven by platonic m/m relationships, and i think that fits the purpose of this fic best. 
> 
> last but not least; this fic is highly, HIGHLY inspired by @discodancing's and that someone is you, which I have linked above. if you're into the dream SMP (it's not RPF), I demand you send them oodles of love. 
> 
> rated T for mild adult content and language. no archive warnings apply. title pulled from ke$ha's die young!

The man they simply call  _ The Doctor  _ likes the spotlight quite a bit, he thinks. 

He thinks about it as though he likes being the center of attention, because he doesn’t like to think about it as though he gets a rush from being viewed like a god. The arc of the stage lights over his head feels a bit like a halo in the best possible way, the unruly screams of a crowd like a chorus of angels. Being a god, of course, means people assume you to be a false deity at every turn, but for the selfish man, the life of a god is enough.

Despite how much he may tell it, though, this story is not about the man they call  _ The Doctor.  _ This story is about the apostle who sent him straight to godhood. 

The apostle’s name is Koschei (sort of). He wishes people would call him  _ The Master  _ like they call the god  _ The Doctor,  _ but the nickname never took off. Only gods in shiny spotlights with handheld mics got nicknames, The Doctor’s closest friends had realized. Koschei is okay with this; he’s pretty sure they’re all okay with this, otherwise they never would have stuck around this long. 

The Doctor’s  _ real  _ name is Theta Sigma (sort of), but his friends just call him Theta. Theta is a selfish man, and a greedy one, but at the same time he manages the kindest soul this side of the multiverse, and for someone who wants and wants and  _ wants  _ he will stop at nothing to bend down and help someone up who needs it. Koschei, on the other hand, is quiet and introverted, academic and nerdy and shy, but there is a fury and an anger below him that demands control over anything that is lesser than his optimal life, including people. This is why people call Theta The Doctor, and why people don’t call Koschei The Master even though he wishes they would. 

The Doctor can be a selfish man, but he pretends he is more selfish than he is, pretends he wants more than he really does whereas Koschei pretends he doesn’t  _ want  _ for everything that’s been handed to him on a silver platter. They make a good team, always thinking and moving in sync, especially onstage. The senses are too stimulated onstage for them to hear each other properly, the riffing of Gamma’s guitar coupled with the audience screaming their devotion for The Doctor, but they can communicate the important things. They both get lost in the noise in their individual ways, but Koschei is good at reeling them in. Upstage, he tilts his head at Theta during a song as if to say  _ That’s enough, Thete,  _ and Theta nods, a hundred thousand unsaid words in the affirmation.

The song ends. The stage is blanketed in the absence of music, only the screaming of the crowd continuing to roar. They need to leave the stage fast, Theta knows, because the sound of the crowd is not the same as the sound of music. It is an ugly sound, in a way he doesn’t quite understand but a way he takes careful care to listen to nonetheless. It’s with a wave and a blown kiss and a hand balled in Gamma’s shirt so he can’t collect any more phone numbers that he makes his exit, converse scuffing up the stage below as he makes his way into the dressing room.

They all share a dressing room, every time, regardless of how fancy the venue is. Theta’s big on  _ community,  _ after all, on making sure their family never drifts. This one has a beat up couch against the back wall and a bowl of Jammie Dodgers in the silver bowl on the center of the coffee table, and Theta’s already elbow-deep in it when the rest of his bandmates enter. He pats the couch next to him, and the apostle takes the invite he knows is for him, burying his head against his Thete’s shoulder. 

“C’mon, quit your whining.” his Thete mumbles, but it’s obvious from the hand combing through his Kosch’s hair that there’s no bite in it. “Good show, at least?”

Koschei nods against the darkness of his shoulder blade, but then after a pause raises a shoulder into the air. “Loud.” He mumbles, muffled.

“Damn right they are.” Theta says with some semblance of a huff; anything that annoys Koschei annoys him, even if he would’ve appreciated it in any other context. Their screams echo into the dressing room even still, and Theta shoots Clytie a look, another wordless communication that renders the door closed. “Not too worn out for next week, are you?” He asked, because everyone in the band knows that Theta is only the god his apostle has made of him, that this god is grateful and will drop everything at any time to return the favor.

“Nah.” Koschei responds, sitting up against the couch properly and smacking Theta upside the head. “Stop  _ your  _ _ fussing. _ I’m good.” 

Theta’s elbow-deep presence in the bowl is interrupted by another arm being shoved in. Gamma’s fingers, well-calloused from plucking guitar strings. Gamma, of course, is a stage name; Theta’s audience calls him  _ The Doctor,  _ but he has assigned stage names to match his real one to his bandmates. Gamma’s real name is Jack, but Theta thinks it sounds dreadfully  _ human  _ and stuffy and hates to use it. 

“We sounded good.” He notes with a mouth full of cookies, always a self-complimenter. “Strong show, even if it was loud.”

Clytie fishes a bottle of painkiller from her purse, tossing them in Koschei’s direction. She’s always been slightly  _ (slightly _ ) more considerate than Gamma, though it is hard to be considerate for something one does not understand. Theta does not want them to, would much rather bask in their gratitude and acknowledge their respect for his Koschei without questioning why it is there in the first place. His Koschei does not like dishonesty, but Theta thinks it is simply a small price to pay. 

Koschei pops the bottle open, studies the pills. “You shouldn’t be taking that human stuff. Not made for four arteries.” Theta grumbles, but Koschei pops a few anyway, swallows dry. 

Theta shoots him a concerned look. “Suns above, I’m  _ fine.  _ I just need some sleep, okay?” 

In response, Theta jumps off the couch and shoves Koschei down onto it in one fluid motion. “Couch is cozy.” He snickers, and Koschei groans directly at him but shoves a pillow over his head and dissolves into the effort nonetheless. 

They give it a few minutes of comfortable silence and cookie eating before Theta removes the pillow from his drummer’s head, nudges him with his foot to make sure he’s still conked out, smooths the hair from his eyes. They are, obviously, the original two members of the band, and they have a bond that’s not quite like the one they share with everyone else. They picked up Gamma next, followed by Clytie and Aletheia, and they’re a regular family now, but the rest of the group know they won’t disturb a sleeping Koschei if they know what’s best for them.

“Sap.” Chuckles Gamma; they love him, though, they really do. They’re all loved by the world, they’re all loved by nobody more than each other. Gamma sits on the arm of the couch by Kosch’s feet, legs in the proper position to kick Theta’s thighs at frequent intervals. It’s annoying as fuck and makes Theta want to smother him with the pillow in his hands, but such action would cause him to topple right back, probably, and that is to be avoided at all costs, as Koschei is fragile as a twig.

The door to the dressing room swings open, and a large, burly security guard Theta doesn’t care to name saunters over and hands him a letter. As archaic as letter-writing can be, sometimes it’s easier to maneuver across dimensions than phone calls. Theta rips the letter open with his teeth, unfolds a letter from his manager.

“What’s it say? Aletheia inquires.

“New song demos.” Theta deadpans, and the room erupts into uproarious laughter, sleeping friends be damned. “Apparently he’s waiting for us across the street, so we’d better change and get going.”

There’s a hustle, a quiet sort of compliance as they all change out of their show-clothes and into their day clothes. Theta studies himself in the mirror, pulls out a tissue and dabs lipstick off his lips with it. “Think he’s written 20 in 4/4?” Clytie quips, and Theta barks out a laugh, a loud  _ Ha!  _ Sort of sound as he crumples the tissue into a ball and throws it into the waste bin. 

“20 more since the last time.” He snorts, grabbing the pillow off the desk and throwing it towards Koschei properly this time, who grumbles and shifts. “Up and at ‘em, sleepyhead, you’ve got some songs to judge.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hello, archive of our own. I'm mack, and I'm very worried about my future. give us some comments. (please and thank you 🥺)


End file.
